


knit a piece of your heart

by tryslora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Background Relationships, Christmas, Christmas Presents, Community: fullmoon_ficlet, Dead Hales, Derek Hale Knits, First Kiss, Flirting, Future Fic, Grief/Mourning, Knitting, M/M, Minor Corey Bryant/Mason Hewitt, Minor Ethan/Jackson Whittemore, Minor Lydia Martin/Jordan Parrish, Minor Scott McCall/Malia Tate, Neck Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:14:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21772537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: We can create something beautiful from this yarn. Something as unique as each and every one of us.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 58
Kudos: 357
Collections: Full Moon Ficlet Prompt #358: Knit





	knit a piece of your heart

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for prompt #358 - Knit at Fullmoon Ficlet! Also it is a holiday story for this year, because Christmas and Derek Hale knitting and healing, what could be better?

The monthly fee for the storage unit had been paid automatically out of the Hale funds for years. Derek didn’t even know it existed in the early days. The lawyers had told him and Laura that there were funds in place to pay for the necessary day to day expenses left in the wake of his family’s deaths. Derek knew that meant Peter’s hospitalization, and didn’t want to think what else it could mean. Funeral expenses. Leftover bills.

When the lawyers started making noises about Laura being too young at 17 to be his legal guardian, he and Laura had made a run for it to New York and until things went wrong in Beacon Hills, they hadn’t looked back.

Ten years after the fire, Derek is finally in a place where he can sit down with the lawyers and the financial advisor and review the payments being made. They’ve had minimal, critical contact over the years for necessary things. The payments for the hospital stopped years ago, when Peter miraculously healed. New payments were added—the ones for the building Derek bought, and Peter’s apartment in the middle of downtown Beacon Hills. Most of the bills are long gone and paid, but there is one that lingers, paid on the first of every month: a 20x20 storage unit in _We Keep 4 U_, a place in the warehouse district, not far from Derek’s building.

It hasn’t been touched in a decade, and Derek decides that he’d rather go investigate alone than take anyone with him.

The smell of old must is overwhelming, masking any personal scents that might have once been attached to the items within. Derek slides the door up and leaves it open, sitting just outside for over an hour while it airs out. When he glances in, he sees piles of plastic bins, neatly labeled with his mother’s handwriting.

It makes his heart clench, and he thinks to himself that he made it this far. This is good for one day. Maybe he’ll just air it out a bit, then close it and come back another day to actually go inside. He doesn’t have to do it all at once.

He’s lying to himself, he knows this. If he leaves, he isn’t coming back.

He opens his phone and drops a note in the group chat for the pack. _Pizza tonight at the loft. 8pm. Someone pick a movie. Bring drinks if you want them; food’s on me._

He turns his phone off after that, secure in the knowledge that the pack will spend the next several hours arguing over a movie choice, and that they’ll start trickling into the loft as early as seven that night. Derek might not want anyone with him right now, but he doesn’t think he’ll want to be alone tonight. Not after this.

He stands slowly and squares his shoulders. He inhales slowly, tasting the air, searching for some remnant of his family’s scent amongst the age and dust. As soon as he opens the first plastic tub, it’s in the air all around him: the smell of sweet cinnamon cookies and fabric and yarn, the dark oily scent of dye strong beneath it all. It makes his nose wrinkle while tears prick his eyes.

The side of the tub says “Mom / Craft Room,” in his mother’s script. Not his mother: hers. Grandma Hale, from before she passed when Derek was only ten years old.

Inside the tub is a neat stack of scrap fabric, some of the patterns familiar from a quilt that once graced Laura’s bed before the fire. He touches the pieces lightly, the memory leaving a thick ache in his chest.

The other side the tub is filled with yarn. Hand twisted hanks that still smell like the dye. He remembers his grandmother hanging the yarn after she would dye it, the scent thick and foul to Derek’s young nose.

“The smell will fade,” she would say. “And we can create something beautiful from this yarn. Something as unique as each and every one of us.”

Derek goes to his knees, head bowed and pressed against the cool plastic. He has barely begun to look through this unit and already he’s found a piece of his heart that was lost long ago.

#

“What are you doing?” Stiles falls onto the couch gracelessly, his knee knocking into Derek’s as he sits, half-twisted to lean into Derek’s space.

Derek lifts an elbow and tries to keep Stiles from getting to close. “Be careful. I don’t want to poke your eye out.”

“Lie!” Liam shouts from across the room.

Derek growls under his breath.

_Die Hard_ plays in the background, but no one is actually watching. Malia is meticulously wrapping each box that Lydia hands to her, not caring whether it’s a gift she bought herself or something else. Mason stands nearby to hand her tape—not clear tape, but sparkling tape from five different dispensers depending on his mood. Peter’s in the kitchen, deep in a conversation with Jordan, too low for Derek to hear the details. Derek has no idea where Scott’s gone, and Corey hasn’t arrived. Liam is the only one pretending to watch the movie, sprawled in front of it, periodically interrupting Mason, Lydia, and Malia.

And Stiles is bothering Derek.

“You might want to poke my eye out, but you won’t give into the urge,” Stiles says easily. “It’s been years. You could’ve easily gouged one out with a claw long before now. Why wait until you’re playing with stabby sticks?”

“Knitting needles,” Derek grumbles. He pauses, because he thinks… yes, there it is, he lost a stitch. God damn it, it has been forever since he was a kid and his grandmother sat him down with two needles and a pile of yarn to help him learn focus. He can remember how to do it as long as he doesn’t think about it and lets muscle memory take control, but the second he pays attention, things go wrong. There’s a low rumble in his chest, thick and irritated, as he picks up the stitch and puts it back where it belongs.

“Dude. Since when do you knit?” Stiles settles back, still tilted closer to Derek than is strictly necessary. Derek pokes him with one elbow, but Stiles doesn’t move. “Gotta leave room for Jackson and Ethan,” Stiles responds to the movement. “Jackson was very blunt about what he would do if I didn’t leave room on the couch.”

“Now that Jackson has Ethan, it is only too obvious that all of your threats are actually disturbingly violent flirting that is never going to go anywhere,” Lydia says. “You really should find yourself a man, Stiles. You want one far more than you ever wanted me.”

Stiles’s heartbeat trips faster. “Shut up, Lyds.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Then stay out of my love life. Or my lack of a sex life. Whatever.” Stiles grabs a pillow from the couch and throws it at her. Malia ducks, and Liam jumps up to catch the pillow before it can hit Lydia, which is probably for the best.

“I could never have pinned you up against a wall the way you wanted,” Lydia says.

Stiles whines and sinks down on the couch. “Lydia.”

“Stiles,” she says flatly. “I mean, really. For God’s sake.”

Derek keeps knitting, one stitch after the other, carefully working through the way his grandmother had taught him. Stab the stitch. Strangle the needle. Pull it through. Let it fall. Stab the stitch. Strangle the needle. Pull it—

“Seriously, dude, when did you start knitting?” Stiles nudges him, and Derek growls loudly as the needle slips, the stitch falling into the space between the two needle tips.

“When I had trouble controlling the shift when I was younger,” Derek grumbles as he recaptures the stitch before it can fall further. “It’s meditative.”

“He’s not lying.” Peter stands on the other side of the counter that separates the kitchen from the main room of the loft. “There was one Christmas when he was fourteen and hormones were high and every single person in our family received a scarf, hat, and mittens set. And we had a very large family. I can’t even imagine the amount of meditative knitting that required, but then, fourteen year old boys do have a habit of—”

“Peter.”

Peter smiles slightly. “And what, exactly, has brought about the return of this habit? Are you experiencing a fresh adolescence, now that the world has calmed and no one is trying to kill you? Is your crush ignoring you?”

Stiles makes a softly strangled sound. Malia stops wrapping and looks up, nostrils flaring.

Derek knits carefully, his jaw tight. Strangle. Pull. Drop. Stab. Strangle. Pull.

“That looks way more violent than meditative,” Stiles says idly.

Lydia coughs.

“It’s not violent.” Derek enunciates each word carefully as he closes his eyes. His fingers run across the stitches and he goes from memory, finding the stitches by feel as he works his way along the row. “It’s zen. It’s focus. Just like when you tap your fingers incessantly. Only I’m knitting.”

“Derek? You smell really—” Malia’s voice cuts off and Derek opens his eyes to see Lydia’s hand over Malia’s mouth. “What?” Malia asks, muffled.

“The movie’s over,” Lydia says. “We should go.”

Malia looks from the screen—now blank—to the box to Lydia’s right. “I’m not done wrapping your presents.”

“Well, you can ride with me and Jordan and finish at the house.” Lydia stands up quickly, brushing imaginary lint from her skirt. “Peter, you were planning on stopping by, yes? Scott can pick you up there. He always enjoys spending time with his prospective father in law, I know.” Her smile is as sharp as any wolf’s, and Derek would try to understand what arrangements she’s making, but to be honest, he doesn’t want to know. He really doesn’t want to know. This pack is confusing enough.

“Can you give me a lift, Liam?” Mason asks. “Corey’s still at work and if you drop me off, I can just hang out there while he’s on shift.”

It’s impressive just how quickly they vacate the apartment.

Every single one of them except for Stiles.

“Um,” Stiles says when they’re all gone. He sits back a little. “I guess I don’t need to leave room for Jackson and Ethan. I’m assuming someone will tell them that movie night is over.”

“You’re still here,” Derek points out. He tries knitting again, but it’s harder to ignore Stiles now that his is the only heartbeat in the loft. Derek focuses on the feel of the soft red yarn under his fingertips, on the way the stitches slip and slide on the needles.

“Mm.” Stiles falls silent after that, retreating to the other end of the couch. He sits with both feet up, arms over his bent knees, hunched forward as he faces Derek. “So. What are you making, anyway?”

Derek hasn’t really thought very far past _just knit_, so he shrugs an answer. “I’ll figure it out when I get there. If all else fails, it’s a scarf. I made a lot of scarves when I was younger.”

“And hormonal?” Stiles makes a face like the question just slips out. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to channel Peter. Not someone I want to emulate.” He cranes his head. “Oh, and if you’re wondering what the hell is going on there—”

“I’m not,” Derek says, but Stiles keeps going anyway.

“It’s nothing. Not really. I mean, Peter’s attracted to Jordan, because I’m pretty sure Peter is attracted to pretty things that could kill him. Which, in retrospect, probably explains a lot about Malia’s mother, too, right?” Stiles says. “But Lydia would put Peter’s balls in a vice if he tried anything with her husband. Plus, Peter has to behave since his daughter happens to be Lydia’s best friend, and he’s trying to be a good father, which is… entertaining. But it also means that Peter follows them all around like a docile puppy and if Lydia says fetch, he does. Which Lydia’s happy to exploit.”

Derek makes a face. “That is far more than I needed to know, Stiles.”

“Always happy to help.” Stiles falls silent again, his heartbeat rapid but even as he watches Derek knit.

Derek comes to the end of the row and slides the stitches further down the needles in order to keep them from slipping off accidentally. He’s managed about four inches since he balled the skein earlier. “So. Is there a reason why you’re sitting there watching me knit?”

“It’s weirdly peaceful.” Stiles flushes, gesturing with one hand. “I mean, you’re the strong silent type normally, so you being quiet isn’t weird. But you look so focused, and I feel like it’ll just rub off on me if I sit here long enough.”

Derek blinks. “You want me to rub off on you.”

Fuck.

That came out wrong.

Stiles’s mouth opens. Closes. He pushes off the couch, stumbling a few steps back. “I. I should go. You’re right, this is weird. I’m being really weird, and I’m sorry.”

It’s impressive just how quickly Stiles moves when he’s motivated. He’s somehow got his jacket in hand and he’s out the door before Derek even manages to stand up. The door slides shut with a low thunk, and Stiles’s footsteps fade down the hall. He takes the stairs rather than wait for the elevator and Derek doesn’t envy him the long walk down.

Derek slowly sinks back down to the couch, picking up the knitting. He slides his thumb along the red knit fabric, and thinks about Stiles’s skin and how it would look against it. He shies away from thoughts he shouldn’t have—thoughts that make no sense in his mind as something he can even consider and keep their friendship from fracturing.

But he knows what he’s making now.

#

Derek knits in spare moments when he needs to settle his heart and his mind. The scarf grows, switching from the original garter stitch to a stockinette withgarter edging. He looks online, frowning as he tries to remember how to read patterns, and writes careful notes to build a slender branching cable that slides up the scarf, sparking out in branches like lightning. He shapes it, making it wider and almost like the heel of a sock in the middle before he narrows it again and begins the mirror of the scarf on the other side.

He knits during pack meetings, and no one says a word about the pile of red knit that grows inch by inch, the stitches becoming more even and sure as he remembers the technique.

When it’s done, and he binds off the final row, he’s almost surprised at how quickly it seemed to go. He used two of his grandmother’s hand-dyed skeins, both red and almost matching. He switched skeins in the middle, so one side is slightly darker than the other, the two colors weaving together in the middle.

He puts it over his head, the hood framing his face as the scarf falls warmly over his shoulders.

Yeah. It’s done.

He shoves it into a paper bag that Malia left behind after some shopping trip and roughly pushes crumpled newspaper over it. As gift bags go, it’s rough, but it’ll have to do.

He could drive across town, but it’s a nice night for a walk. A very long, very calming walk.

By the time he knocks on the door to Stiles’s house, his heart is elevated only from the walk. Exercise has pushed down nerves, and he clutches the handle and tries to keep himself from stepping away while waiting for the door to open.

The Sheriff looks at him when the door opens, both eyebrows going up. “Someday I will get used to the fact that you show up randomly. At least you use the door,” he mutters. “Are you here to collect my son for some kind of supernatural emergency? Should I put the hospital on alert?”

Derek shakes his head. “I brought something over for Stiles.”

The Sheriff’s gaze drops to the bag dangling from Derek’s hand, and his brow furrows. “Okay,” he says, pulling the door wider. “He’s upstairs. Go on up.” He raises his voice, yelling out, “Derek’s here and on his way up.” Quieter, he adds, “Just in case.”

Derek needs to not think about why the Sheriff would say that.

“Dad, I’m just—” Stiles cuts off with a thunk, followed by a low crash. “Nothing important,” he yells out. “Just the bookend. Didn’t actually break anything, including me.” He yanks open the door just as Derek gets to the top of the stairs, and stands in the small open space, swaying with the movement of having just arrived. “Hey, Derek.”

Suddenly this all seems like a terrible idea.

Derek wavers there, one step into the hall, his hand still on the rail. Stiles’s brow furrows, gaze dropping to the bag held tight in Derek’s hand. “You got something you need me to look into for you?”

Derek slowly shakes his head. “No.” He takes another step closer, raising his hand. The crumpled newspaper crinkles as the bag moves. “This is for you.”

Stiles tilts his head, opens his door a little more. “I was just working on my thesis,” he raises his voice, “because I have a work ethic and close my door to get peace and quiet from someone’s loud TV.” Lowering his voice he grins again. “Don’t worry, big guy. Nothing awkward’s been happening in here today.”

Today, he says, like it’s an accomplishment. But Derek knows that no matter what, Stiles’s room is always soaked in scent. It’s changed since he was a teenager. There’s no longer a sense of desperation in the scent that lingers, but it’s still personal. Very personal, and very Stiles.

Derek moves slowly, following him into the room and taking a seat on the bed when Stiles points. He holds out the bag again. “Here.”

“Okay.” Stiles holds the bag up, looks at the side. “You picked me up something from Whole Foods?”

“No. Malia left the bag. I didn’t have anything to wrap with.” Derek inhales slowly, trying to center himself. His heart rate is rising again, rushing in his chest. He presses one hand there, as if he could somehow slow it down like that. “It’s just a Christmas present, Stiles. Open it already.”

“Don’t we have that big Christmas dinner thing Lydia and Parrish arranged for Wednesday? It’s only Sunday, Derek.” Stiles pokes at the newspaper, but doesn’t move to take it out.

“Yes, it’s Sunday, and I had time to finish it and bring it over, so just open the damned thing already,” Derek growls. He flinches at Stiles’s surprised look. “It’s not a big deal. I just didn’t feel like waiting.”

He didn’t want to give it to Stiles in front of everyone. There’s another gift for that, a book an old friend found for him at a tiny bookstore tucked away in New York. That’ll be for Wednesday.

This is for… well, this is for now.

Stiles sits on the bed next to Derek and puts the bag on his lap. He pulls the newspaper out and drops it on the floor before he looks in.

He says nothing.

Derek can’t stand the silence. “You don’t have to keep it if you don’t want it. I figured the rest of the pack would laugh. Just—give it back if you don’t care.” He reaches, but Stiles grabs the bag and twists away from him, holding it out of reach.

“No way, Derek. You gave this to me; I’m not giving it back.” Stiles shoves one hand in the bag, letting the bag fall away as he lifts the soft red knit fabric out. He tries to untangle it. “It’s a scarf?”

“Hooded scarf,” Derek corrects him. He’d tried to fold it neatly, but it obviously had been jostled in the bag. “Here.” He holds out one hand, and when Stiles slowly places the hooded scarf there, Derek carefully shakes it out. He considers putting it over Stiles’s head, holding it out for several seconds before he says, “Here,” again, and drops it in Stiles’s lap.

“Um.” Stiles carefully puts the hood over his head. The scarf falls forward over his shoulders, and he lifts first one side, then the other, wrapping it around his throat. When he tilts his head again, all Derek can see is the fabric he made snuggled up close against mole-speckled pale skin.

Fuck. He should not be having these thoughts.

“Derek?” Stiles says softly.

“It’s just a present,” Derek mumbles, pushing to his feet. He stops when Stiles grabs his wrist, looks down at the slender fingers wrapped around him. He could pull away easily, and he waits for Stiles to remember that.

Stiles doesn’t let go.

Instead, he tugs lightly until Derek sits again, perched on the edge of the bed.

“We’re going to talk,” Stiles says slowly. “With words. And I mean the kinds of words that say things, not the kinds of words that talk around things.”

Derek has a really bad feeling about this.

“You made this.” Stiles waves the end of the scarf at Derek. “You’ve been working on this for a while.”

Derek nods. “I forgot how good it feels to knit,” he says carefully. “Everything else just falls away. There’s me and the yarn and the needles and then there’s this thing that I made. This thing that’s a part of me.”

“Which you’re giving to me,” Stiles says.

Derek goes still. Stiles still has a hand wrapped around his wrist, fingers tight, thumb sliding along the knob of Derek’s wrist.

“My grandmother always said—” Derek almost chokes on the words, because he can still see her, crouching down in front of him when he was young. Even before he knit, back when he would draw something for his grandparents every year. “She said that if you make something and give it away, you give them a part of you.” Because yes, his thinks that Stiles understands.

Peter never had. He’d never seen beyond the frantic need for calm that Derek had during his teenage years. He hadn’t understood that Derek was reaching out, making connections with his pack. That he was giving them something to hold on to, something that was his and his alone.

That’s why Derek couldn’t do this in front of the pack. He can’t trust them. They would be Peter, not Stiles.

But Stiles—

He has Derek’s hands in his, and he turns to face him. “You made this for me,” Stiles says quietly. “And I really like it. It’s warm, and so yes, there’s a whole red riding hood and big bad wolf vibe going on, but if you want to role-play, I’m into it.” He tilts his head a little further. “My, what big teeth you have….”

“Stiles.”

Stiles swallows, his heart rabbiting faster, anxiety thick in the air. “Serious offer on the table, Derek. Take it or leave it, big guy, but if you’re giving me a piece of yourself, I’m thinking maybe I can be brave enough to offer you a piece of me in return. I mean. Not like I’m trying to pay you for the gift. I just. If you. I want. This. You.”

Derek’s heart thuds loudly enough that he’s certain that Stiles can hear it.

“You. Want. Me?”

Stiles nods quickly. “And my neck’s starting to hurt, so if you want to just give it a quick nuzzle and start sealing this deal, that’d be good, because grand gestures aren’t supposed to leave me in pain for days. Although this is us. Who knows what kind of trouble we could get into, right?”

Derek leans in slowly, unwrapping the scarf from Stiles’s throat as he nudges close. He’s able to slot his face into the crook of his neck, the hollow right beneath his ear. He licks Stiles’s jawline, tasting sweat and hunger and the beat of his heart fluttering right there beneath his skin. He smells the lingering scent of dye from the yarn blending with the fresh want in Stiles’s sweat, and the mix is a powerful aphrodisiac.

Stiles smells like here and now but he also smells like pack and home. He smells like family.

When Derek nuzzles him, teeth scraping lightly, Stiles whines. “Fuck, Derek.”

A thump from downstairs has Derek pulling back abruptly, one hand on Stiles’s chest to keep him in place as Derek turns to face the door.

“I’m ordering pizza,” the Sheriff calls up the stairs. “You boys want some?”

Stiles slumps back. “You know,” he mutters. “I completely forgot he was home. As soon as I get this degree, I swear I’m moving out.”

“You said that for your undergrad,” Derek reminds him. “And your first masters, and your second masters.”

“And now I’m a broke PhD student,” Stiles protests. He coughs, then pushes at Derek’s hand so he can sit up. “Yeah, Dad,” he yells back. “Pizza sounds good. Want us to go out and pick it up.”

The silence stretches long enough that Derek imagines the Sheriff running through the possible scenarios. After a time, the Sheriff yells back, “You know what, delivery’ll be just fine. Why don’t you come downstairs and watch a movie with me while we’re waiting. I’m sure you need a break from all that work you’re getting done on your thesis.”

Stiles adjusts himself. “Yeah, sure, we’ll be down soon,” he agrees. He carefully takes off the hood, and folds it neatly before setting aside. “My dad, the cock block. He could’ve just gone out to pick it up, or we could’ve—”

“Stiles, I don’t want to have sex with you,” Derek says. “Right now,” he adds, when he sees the hurt come into Stiles’s expression. “Fuck. See, I knew I’d just fuck up our friendship if I thought about—”

“Hey, no. You haven’t,” Stiles assures him. He grabs Derek’s hands, holds them to the side so he can lean in and brush a fleeting kiss against his lips. “We are going to do more of that later. Maybe even in front of my dad until he kicks us out of the room for his own sanity. Think we can be cute enough?”

“I think he’ll retaliate by inviting Scott and Malia over,” Derek says dryly. “You are inventive with your revenge. Remember who you got it from.”

Stiles winces. “Yeah. You have a point. And I’m um… I’m not sure I’m ready to share this yet. With everyone. I mean, I want to, and I really hope we can drive them all completely insane on Wednesday, but right now, I kind of want to spend a while figuring it out between you and me. So I guess I get what you mean. Sex right this second isn’t the best idea.”

Derek’s shoulders loosen. “Yes. Exactly. That. I want time with you, Stiles. A lot of time.”

“So you’re claiming me,” Stiles says.

Derek holds his gaze, then leans in slowly and licks a long stripe from Stiles’s collarbone up to the spot behind his ear. He catches Stiles’s earlobe between his teeth, tugging gently before he nibbles on his throat, leaving a small mark. “I licked you,” he murmurs into his skin. “You’re mine.”

“I’m thinking a war movie.” The Sheriff’s voice floats up, almost conversational despite being loud enough for Stiles to hear.

“We’d better….” Stiles’s voice trails off as he tilts his head. “Okay, crick in my neck is worth it. Go ahead and keep licking.”

“I like war movies.” It’s not a lie. And Derek might not want to jump all the way to sex right now, but lying here, inhaling Stiles’s scent, is intoxicating and addicting. He’s not in a rush.

“Hrngh.” Stiles pushes at Derek. “He’s going to keep making things worse until he decides to come upstairs. I know. I’m an adult. I could get my own place. But—”

Derek nips gently once more, then pulls back. “We have time. Plenty of time.” He reaches for the hooded scarf and carefully wraps Stiles up in it. “There. Go show your dad why I came over. I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Making yourself presentable?” Stiles asks.

“Letting you answer your father’s questions on your own to start. He’s going to want to check in with you.” Derek would, if he were the Sheriff, and he wants to give them that privacy.

He waits until Stiles is gone before he reaches down to pick up a discarded t-shirt that must have fallen to the floor. Derek holds it out, gauging the size, then he balls it up and shoves it into the bag he brought.

After all, if he’s going to make a sweater, he needs something to help him get the size right. The fact that it smells like Stiles is just a bonus.

Derek thinks there’s a lot more yarn in that storage locker, and he knows what he wants to do now. Eventually he’ll make something for everyone in the pack, knitting them together with little pieces of his creativity given as gifts. But first, he wants to knit for Stiles. He wants to give himself to Stiles over and over.

Now that he knows Stiles will accept his gifts, he’s willing to take that risk.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me (mostly silent) on Tumblr as [tryslora](http://tryslora.tumblr.com) and on Pillowfort as [tryslora](https://www.pillowfort.io/tryslora). I also write original fiction! If you like my fic, you might like my original twice-weekly series [Welcome to PHU](http://welcometophu.tumblr.com) (also mirroring on Pillowfort at [Welcome to PHU](https://www.pillowfort.io/community/WelcomeToPHU)).


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